


A Moment on the Lips

by kissmekatie



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Body Image, First Time, Food Issues, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:31:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmekatie/pseuds/kissmekatie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Douglas finds himself single again, he turns to the culinary arts for comfort. Martin notices that he’s put on a little padding…enthusiastically.  For original prompt on cabinpres_fic, click <a href="http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/4207.html?thread=5449583#cmt5449583">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moment on the Lips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crocodile_eat_u](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/gifts).



Evenings were the worst. For nearly all his adult life, Douglas Richardson had spent those precious hours between work and bed _with_ someone. In school, university, back when he was young and dashing, he'd had no shortage of study partners, or his pick of ladies from the pubs around campus. Mrs. Richardson numero uno had enjoyed a quiet evening in, snugged up on the sofa with a book or DVD and her husband. Number two was more of an extrovert, and they had gone out often--but always together. Helena, until her cursed fascination with Tai Chi, had been in the habit of serving the evening meal rather late, so that she and Douglas could cook together when they were both home.

Maybe that's why food seemed the obvious substitute. He missed Helena, deeply. He hadn't been lying when he told Martin that she was his favorite wife, and they had really gotten on so, so well. He'd cherished their kitchen escapades more than he realized, until the first night he came home from the airfield and there were no ingredients laid out on the kitchen counter, no pots and pans standing at the ready.

Well. _That_ would never do, so rather than give into the temptation to wallow in self-pity, he rolled up his sleeves and headed for the pantry.

~*~

"You're building up quite the repertoire," Martin commented, shooting Douglas a sidelong glance. 

"Hmm? Oh," Douglas gave half a shrug, looking from his lunch to Martin and back again. "You mean this?"

Martin hummed in agreement. "We've been on standby for a week; I don't think you've brought the same thing to eat twice."

"Ah," Douglas smirked. "Surprised? You shouldn't be. I've quite the sophisticated palate, you know. And, I must admit, cooking for one is harder than one might think."

Martin froze for a beat, processing why Douglas would be 'cooking for one.' The moment he caught Douglas' meaning was obvious by the mortified flush that rose in his cheeks. "I-I'm sorry, sorry, I didn't--I didn't mean to bring up--" he floundered, face growing redder by the minute.

"Calm yourself, Sir," Douglas picked up his fork and looked down at his stuffed chicken breast and rosemary potatoes. 

"Just--let me enjoy my lunch."

"I--all--all right," Martin tucked his chin down, avoiding Douglas' eyes. "Sorry."

~*~

Martin, if pressed, would have admitted to a small hint of jealousy as he watched Douglas unpack meal after meal of glorious, full-fat, full-calorie, full-on-amazing _deliciousness_.

Monday was some sort of fragrant stew, topped with a layer of luscious, mealy potatoes, golden-brown on top and glossy with dark gravy inside. 

Tuesday was good old steak and kidney pie, which wasn't a favorite of Martin's. Still, it was a generous helping, and Martins' stomach rumbled as he tried to hide his half an egg sandwich. Not egg _salad_ \--one scrambled egg one one slice of bread, folded in half. 

Wednesday was homemade fish and chips, with grease fairly dripping off it and the tang of vinegar in the air made Martin's salivary glands clench painfully. 

Thursday, Martin watched, balanced evenly between fascination and horror, as Douglas polished off what looked like almost a whole pig.

Friday was the worst. That's when Douglas showed up with some equally ridiculous, aromatic, mouthwatering main dish...but this time, he had dessert. Martin didn't even know what to call it, but there was chocolate sponge, raspberries, cream, and chocolate buttercream. Watching Douglas press the last crumbs up it into the tines of his fork and lick the utensil clean, Martin realized he had a problem.

~*~

It felt good, Douglas admitted to himself. Years ago, he would have turned to a stiff drink for catharsis. Cooking, and of course eating, was ever so much more satisfying. There was a certain zen about meal preparation, and it required just the right amount of attention to make it relaxing without becoming boring.

Problem was, with the right (or wrong) personality, it was easy to swap one addiction for another. And, distractions aside, he was still alone. And...another helping of dessert was almost as good as a drink. 

After one week, Douglas found himself running out of space in his freezer. After two weeks, he'd begun bringing baked goods to work. After three weeks, cooking nearly every night, the freezer was completely jammed full of food, the pantry looked as though it had been hit by a hurricane, and Douglas almost didn't feel lonely anymore.  
~*~  
 _Damn you, Douglas. Damn you to the fifteenth circle of Hell, and I hope you take your bloody desserts with you_ , Martin though, frowning at GERTI's controls. He'd been fine, he really had. He thought it was great that Douglas had found something to keep him occupied, and although he'd let himself be hanged before admitting it, he was glad of the culinary contributions that Douglas had begun leaving around the portacabin. Martin's grocery budget was stretched thin at the best of times, so the occasional donation never went amiss, as long as it never felt like a donation. The fact that it came from Douglas was even better. Then, later in the evening when he unwrapped whatever morsel he'd secreted home in his pocket, he could pretend that someone--no, that Douglas cared enough to make sure he ate.

Oh, and wasn't _that_ an interesting development.

So was the latest issue, which had just happened in the flight deck, and which had led directly to Martin's mental cursing of his First officer. The First Officer in question, just moments before, had announced that he needed to make a visit to the gent's. Just as Martin glanced his way and murmured, "I have control," Douglas stood up. And then, the bastard stretched.

Martin swallowed hard as he replayed the scene in his mind. Because Douglas, the git, had gained weight. He had gained weight, and it was--it was. Well. It was. Oh God. As Douglas arched his spine, his stomach had pushed out and his jacket had fallen open. And Martin, quietly doing his job, had been ambushed by the outline of Douglas' belly visible through his shirt.

And Martin's mouth had watered.

_Fuck._

~*~

Douglas was no stranger to looks. He’d received plenty, and given more than his fair share over the years. Dirty ones, clean ones, leering ones, laughing ones—and then there was the one that Martin had just given him. Standing in the loo and staring at his own reflection, Douglas realized he no longer had a chin. No, now he had two. 

And of course—of _course_ Martin would notice. The little shit was built like a bloody greyhound, and a hungry one at that. His shoulder blades all but sliced through the fabric of his uniform, and his trousers clung perilously to the jut of his hipbones even with a belt. The thought of it was enough to make Douglas fingers itch with the urge to touch. Except now, going by that look of—well, it had to be horror—on Martin’s face, fat (oh god) chance of _that_ ever happening.

Maybe when he got home, he’d pull out that cheesecake recipe he’d meant to try.

~*~

Douglas hated him. Douglas had caught him looking, and knew how it had affected him, and now Douglas was repulsed. Martin rubbed at the ache behind his eyes, propping his elbows on his desk and ignoring the way it ruffled his paperwork. _Okay, okay, back up_ , Martin told himself. _You don't know that. Maybe something else happened with his divorce or something. Just because he's been surly doesn't mean he hates you. It certainly hasn't ever indicated that before._ Because despite the near-constant ribbing between them, there was always a friendly undercurrent. Well, mostly. This was different, though.

Ever since That Time in the flight deck, Douglas had seemed readier with a barb or cutting words than usual. Mostly, jibes about Martin's food, or lack thereof. Or his clothes--or rather, the fact that they didn't fit very well. That was hardly fair; he'd gotten them right after he started with MJN, back when he'd just left an actual paying job as a pilot. It had been an awful job, but he'd at least been able to eat the occasional piece of meat along with his pasta and day-old bread. These days he could barely look at himself in the mirror, disgusted by his own knobby joints and protruding ribs. And Douglas, regardless of his recent case of the verbal nasties, he just _wasn't helping_.

God, that stomach. Douglas had always been a solid man, bigger than Martin in a way that made the younger man's mouth dry. Since he'd become a culinary master, though--just that little bit of weight he'd gained took Martin's breath away. He wanted to touch. He longed to nuzzle his face into the flesh below Douglas' navel, where he knew it would be soft and plush. He wanted to bite, lick, suck love bites into the swell of that belly before heading northward to lave the older man's nipples, or southward to do the same to...well, other parts of Douglas.

_Breathe, Martin. In, out. Okay...okay._

Day after next, they were scheduled for a three-day trip to the States. Eight or so hours cooped up together in the flight deck should give him time to think of something to say. Hopefully.

~*~

"And...post-takeoff checks complete, Captain" Douglas leaned back in his seat. "Suppose we'd best settle in for the long haul, eh?"

"The only good part about long flights is the free catering," Martin sighed, rolling his head from side to side and flexing his shoulders. Douglas stared as covertly as possible, biting the inside of his lip as he watched the knobs of Martin's cervical vertebrae peek out from under his collar. _Steady on there, Richardson. One good bump with your newly-found paunch would crush the boy. Just step away slowly._

"How's the removals business these days?" Douglas pulled his eyes away from Martin's neck and glanced down at the controls. He didn't want to think about the catering. Or food at all, really. He'd spent the night before frowning at his reflection in his bedroom mirror, trying to convince himself that his trousers weren't too snug in the waist, and his middle didn't jiggle when he poked it. Finally, annoyed with himself for acting like a teenage girl, he'd shucked off his trousers and gone to get a piece of cake--new recipe, and a good one at that--which he had then proceeded to eat whilst lounging on the couch in boxers and a worn-thin tee shirt. Not exactly the perfect solution, but the sweet crumble of chocolate goodness on his tongue and the swirl of icing he licked off his fork was as good as the burn of alcohol in the back of his throat.

"Fine," Martin shrugged noncommittally. "Although I did have to turn down a big job for this trip," he winced. "I'll need to put a new hole in my belt soon." His mouth twisted wryly.

Douglas' eyes narrowed. Was Martin mocking him? He didn't _think_ so, but a paranoid little corner of his brain shrieked in indignation. "So will I," he responded, voice brittle. "Just, you know, in the other direction." It came out a little more bitter than he'd intended.

 _Shit._ Martin narrowly avoided blurting that out loud. Why did he have to bring that up? Eight hours shoehorned into the cockpit together was bad enough, but Martin didn't need an incipient hard-on to deal with at the same time. Still, it was obvious that Douglas wasn't trying to taunt him. He sounded almost angry about it. "Oh come off it," Martin managed to choke. "You've never looked better."

"Don't," Douglas barked, almost before Martin could finish the sentence. "Just--don't, all right?"

Martin yelped, "I"m not!" reflexively, jumping in his seat and turning to look at Douglas directly for the first time since takeoff. "Don't what? I wasn't, I swear! Whatever it is, I'm not."

Douglas sighed. Martin hadn't deserved that, even if he had been kidding. Judging by the deer-in-the headlights routine currently happening in the Captain's seat, Martin had been in earnest. "Sorry, old chap. Bit of a knee-jerk there. No, I just mean--don't lie to me. I know I've put on a bit of weight. It's all right if you've noticed. You don't have to pander to my vanity."

"I'm--I'm really not," Martin swallowed hard around the words, and damn it, he could feel his cheeks heating. "I _have_ noticed, but so what? You still--you still look..." _delicious_ , he thought. _Luscious. Voluptuous._ "...fine," he finished lamely. "Good, I mean. A--attractive. I mean! Not that I'm attracted--not that I'm _not_ , it's just you--oh sod it."

Normally, the sight of Martin dithering was a lovely thing. It still was, on a secondary level, but Douglas was too poleaxed to really appreciate it. _Attractive_ , Martin had said. Well, stammered. Douglas could feel a blush prickling up the back of his neck, and wasn't _that_ unprecedented. Martin was still squirming in his seat, though he'd fallen blessedly quiet when Douglas didn't immediately cut him down for his pains. "I um," Douglas pulled his (four) chin(s) in toward his chest and glanced over at his Captain. "Well. Thank you, Martin. That's...very kind."

Martin blew out a long breath, suddenly weak with relief. He'd risked showing his hand, just a bit, and Douglas hadn't laughed at him. He hadn't even had anything sarcastic to say. In fact, he'd seemed almost shy about the compliment. Emboldened by the marked lack of vitriol in Douglas' demeanor, Martin dared to reach a hand out to brush tentative fingertips against his First Officer's sleeve. "Anytime," he murmured. "Really."

~*~

 _Attractive. Attractive...attractive?_ Douglas played the word over in his mind, first the way Martin had said it and then in the incredulous voice of his own internal monologue, all the way to New York. All the way through the terminal, and all the way to their hotel. 

Arthur had managed to play Yellow Car the whole way, nearly talking himself hoarse after the 14,000th yellow cab had muscled its way past his window. Martin, the shortest of their motley crew, had been wedged into the middle of the taxi's back seat with his knees around his ears and his shoulders crammed between Arthur's and Douglas'. Douglas, for his part, had done his best to keep his brain on-line, but between the warm press of Martin's body against his side and the broken record in Martin's voice in his head, Douglas could barely remember to breathe, much less make clever remarks about Arthur's antics.

It wasn't very often that Douglas Richardson got set back on his heels. He hadn't thought Martin had it in him to surprise him like that, but then, it was always the quiet ones, wasn't it? Once he could take a step back from the situation, he supposed it made sense. His first wife, back when he'd been far younger and far fitter, had adored his angles. On her, though, he'd much preferred the softness of her breasts, the lush curves of her bottom. Everyone liked something different, and just because Douglas preferred his lovers thin didn't mean Martin did. If Martin preferred anyone, that was. Did he? Douglas didn't know. Time to find out.

"Plans for this evening, Sir?" Douglas murmured, jiggling the shoulder that was pressed up against Martin's minutely. 

Martin jumped, gulping audibly as he turned to look at Douglas as much as he was able. "I, uh. Well, I brought a book," he admitted. "Caitlin recommended I read that series--the _Hunger Games_ , I guess?"

 _Really?_ Douglas asked the universe. _Really. Of all the series in the world?_ "Well, if Sir would prefer, I thought maybe a bite to eat would be in order, seeing as our in-flight meal was ages ago and we've got three days to scratch out an existence here before our next catered dining experience?"

"Oh," Martin's face fell a bit. "I'd--well. That sounds really nice, but I--you know how I said I had to turn down a big job, and--"

"My treat, of course," Douglas continued smoothly, encouraged by how disappointed Martin had looked while almost-refusing the invitation. 

"What about Arthur?" Martin whispered, still holding onto the anxious look of which he seemed so fond.

"Oh Arthur," Douglas called, holding Martin's gaze with his own. "What do you think of some gourmet dining this evening?"

"Oh brilliant!" Arthur bubbled. "Only, I was thinking maybe I'd try to find a corn dog. Sorry, Douglas."

"No no," Douglas' mouth quirked up on one side, mirroring the beginnings of a smile on Martin's lips. "You go ahead. I'm sure there must be somewhere to find such a delicacy in a city of this size. It's settled, then," he lowered his voice just for Martin's ears, which were turning a charming shade of pink. "It's a date."

"Is it?" Martin replied, only half as a question. His smile had slipped, and the look in his eye was startlingly earnest.

"Hmm," Douglas' voice was barely a breath, and he leaned just a little bit harder into Martin's side. "Why don't you tell me?"

~*~

It was a date. It _had_ to be a date, or the way Douglas was looking at him made no sense at all. Martin squirmed pleasantly under his First Officer's scrutiny, biting his lower lip against a shy grin. He hadn't had this much fun in..well, a while.

Douglas had chosen a little Mexican place not too far from the hotel. Martin almost jumped out of his skin when Douglas ushered him through the door with a hand on the small of his back, and he couldn't help but drag his feet a little, prolonging the contact as much as possible. Douglas didn't hurry him, instead crowding up into Martin's space as they followed the host to their table.

"I fancy this is at least one step up from the corn dog," Douglas smiled softly as Martin spread his napkin on his lap.

"Several, I should think," Martin responded warmly, looking around. The decorations were simple but cheerful, and the delicious aroma in the air made his mouth water. "How did you find this place? It's basically in a back alley."

"Friend of a friend," Douglas chuckled. "A friend to whom I once gifted several cases of assorted Swiss chocolates."

"Ah, one of _those_ friends," Martin nodded mock-sagely, barely able to conceal an ear-to-ear grin. Once upon a time, he would have fussed at Douglas over a comment like that. Here, snug indoors with dusk closing in on the city outside, he could let it slide. Douglas was in control, and it was more than a little lovely. "What--um, what do you recommend?" Martin cleared his throat.

"Oh, I don't know," Douglas stretched his legs out, and Martin nearly choked on his own tongue when their ankles brushed under the table. The only sign Douglas gave that he'd noticed was a quick, roguish wink over the top of his menu. "I'm partial to carne asada, but then I'm a beef sort of man. If you prefer chicken or seafood, or both, you might try one of the taco dishes. Or if you're interested in something completely and unspeakably weird, there's mole on the menu."

"Mole-ay?" Martin repeated. "What in heaven's name is _that_?"

"Rather a mish-mash," Douglas told him. "There are something like fifteen ingredients, but mostly it's a brownish-black dark-flavoured spicy sauce with chunks of meat in it, in my experience."

Martin's eyebrows contorted and he thought about it for a moment. "Ehh...as much as I'd like to try something new tonight...maybe not."

"Indeed, well perhaps something else new then," Douglas purred, and it definitely wasn't Martin's imagination when their ankles touched again.

~*~

Martin's mouth tasted like cinnamon and silky, bittersweet chocolate. Douglas groaned against his Captain's lips, walking him slowly backward until the younger man's shoulders thudded softly into his own hotel room door. Martin huffed out a whimper, his breath hot against Douglas' cheek as their mouths slanted together, and the sound sent a frisson of arousal up Douglas' spine like a bolt of lightning.

They'd decided to walk back to the hotel, saving money on a cab and giving them an excuse to brush shoulders the entire way. In an unprecedented fit of generosity, Carolyn had booked them all in separate rooms, and Douglas had jokingly offered to walk Martin home. His heart caught in his throat when Martin laughed, agreed, and brushed their fingertips together as they walked.

Now, Douglas wove his fingers through Martin's, pinning one long, elegant hand to the wall beside Martin's head. Martin's other hand went to Douglas' waist, and he tugged insistently until the older man took a step forward to press their bodies together from hips to--navel?

Douglas froze.

God. Damn. It. God _damn_ his old, pudgy body, and this awful new spare tire around his middle. The realization that his belly created a chasm between his body and Martin's hit Douglas like the most effective bucket of cold water that ever dumped on an amorous couple, and his gorge rose.

It took Martin a minute to realize that Douglas' fingers were slack against his own, and that things had ground to a rather screeching halt. "Um...?" his eyes fluttered open, and his face fell when he saw Douglas with his head bowed down and lines of tension in his shoulders. "Douglas?"

"I'm sorry, Martin," he said, stepping back and disentangling his hand. "I've, ah--apparently the spiciness--you know, heartburn." Lies. It was a pathetic, transparent ruse and even Martin knew it, because Douglas had made a point of feeding him a forkful of his decidedly non-spicy dinner not forty-five minutes ago.

As soon as the fib fell from his lips, Douglas knew he'd miscalculated. The becoming flush of color faded from Martin's cheeks in a heartbeat, and he shrank back against the door and began fumbling for his key. "I'm--I'm sorry, Douglas, I didn't--I thought you wanted. If--if you--I'm--please," he dragged in a shaky breath, refusing to meet Douglas' eyes. "Did I get it wrong? I didn't mean to--to push."

"Oh, Martin," Douglas sighed, heart twisting in his chest. "No, I'm--I'm sorry." He put out a hand to touch Martin's shoulder, encouraged when the younger man didn't flinch away. "You didn't get it wrong, not a bit, but--and don't laugh, because I absolutely will deny saying this if it ever comes up again--but I just...am not...ready." And he wasn't. He wasn't ready to face his own body issues, which had burrowed down deep inside him like a lurking infection ever since he'd seen the numbers on his bathroom scale start to climb. He wasn't ready to look down at his own naked body and see nothing but the convex curve of his stomach. Especially not next to Martin, who had been trying to work a firm thigh between his flabby legs just moments before. God, no...not ready at all.

Some of his misery must have showed on his face, because Martin was looking up at him with wide, pale eyes that looked unexpectedly...understanding. With a sigh, Martin reached up to clasp the hand that Douglas still had on his shoulder, lifting it so that he could turn and plant a chaste kiss in the middle of his First Officer's palm. "Would you be all right to just come in?" Martin asked. "We don't have to do anything more, but it seems a shame to end such a nice night like this."

He did have a point, so Douglas nodded mutely, and Martin kept a hold of his hand while he located his key, drew Douglas inside, and nudged the door shut behind them.

~*~

Martin was going to die. It would be glorious. He was going to drown in a sea of _Douglas_ and he would die a happy, happy man. It was no surprise that Douglas was a very talented kisser…but it was a surprise, to Martin at least, that Douglas would want to kiss _him_. The appreciative hum that rumbled through Douglas’ chest and vibrated against Martin’s tongue was indication that Douglas did, though, very much. 

Martin’s heart hammered in his chest as Douglas interwove their fingers, and Martin simply couldn’t go one more second without feeling that luscious, wonderful body against his own. Wandering fingers hooked into one of Douglas’ belt loops, and he pulled.

Oh God. Oh, oh, God, he was going to come right there in his pants like a kid. Douglas was warm and soft and oh God, between the kissing and the hands and that cushy, ample belly, Martin was--

\--Cold.

Oh no. No, no— _no_! The kissing had stopped. The hand that moments before had clung to Martin’s like a limpet had gone limp and the erotic weight of Douglas’ body against his own was completely gone. Panting like he’d just run a marathon and trying to swallow down around the lump of his heart in his throat, Martin opened his eyes.

“Douglas?” he gulped, and his whole body ached when Douglas pulled back and shook off Martin’s hand. That’s when the lying started. Douglas mumbled something about spicy food heartburn, and Martin reared back as if he’d been slapped. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true, because Martin could still taste the rich, savory flavour of beef on his lips, wet from Douglas’ kisses, and spicy was not part of the equation. Martin nearly vomited.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he scrambled, trying to backpedal and explain and not-panic all at once. “I thought you wanted—” This was horrible, this was the worst thing that had ever happened to him, and it was the worst thing he’d ever done because now Douglas really would hate him, and he’d have to resign, and—this wasn’t helping. His breath shuddered in his throat as he stopped, breathed, and tried to pull himself together. “Did I get it wrong?” he asked meekly, sounding sincere as he knew how. 

He could feel Douglas deflate even with the inches of chilly, empty space between them. When Douglas bridged that gap with a gentle caress of his hand, Martin’s heart flopped over so fast it made him dizzy. And when Douglas said he wasn’t ready, Martin had an epiphany.

Self-loathing was a very familiar state of being for Martin. Between the frizz of ginger curls, freakishly pale eyes, skeletal body, and coltish clumsiness, he’d be the first to admit that he hadn’t always felt at home in his own graceless skin. And the way Douglas was ducking away from eye contact, with his shoulders bunched and tense around his ears, looked very like the way Martin avoided the bathroom mirror at home.

Martin had spent over a month daydreaming about falling into the plush shelter of Douglas’ body and letting himself be taken however Douglas wanted him. He’d wanted to spend the night in Douglas’ arms. Maybe, though, _Douglas_ needed to spend the night in _his_.

~*~

For what had to be epically cheap accommodations, the hotel beds weren't terribly uncomfortable. Martin tugged Douglas down to sit next to him on the edge of the mattress, thighs brushing lightly and fingers still laced together. "So. Dinner was really nice," he murmured. "I haven't had such a good meal in forever." He watched Douglas' face carefully as he picked his way through the next thought, "In fact, I was just looking in the mirror the other day and thinking how you could play the glockenspiel on my ribs. It's quite disgusting, really."

"Don't be ridiculous," Douglas blurted, and Martin nudged him with his shoulder. "And--it's not the same thing," he groused.

"I don't see how it's different," Martin leaned into Douglas' warmth, squeezing his fingers softly. "You're not happy; does it matter why?"

It was hard to stay embittered with the smell of Martin's shampoo in his nose and the feel of a smooth palm against his own, but Douglas did his best. "You've no idea what I'm feeling." Other than the weight of Martin's fond glare, that was.

Martin sighed, visibly frustrated with Douglas’ stubborn refusal to see sense. "Shall I tell you how _I'm_ feeling, then?" 

"Martin," Douglas chuckled. "We're British. And we're men. If you wanted to--"

"I hate my hair," Martin blurted. Douglas' mouth snapped shut with an audible click, and Martin barreled on with determination born of desperation. "It's a horrid color, and whenever it's the least bit damp, it goes all corkscrewy and I look like I've been electrocuted." A beat, then, "Douglas, we live in _England_. It's _always_ damp!" He was rewarded with a low chuckle, and Douglas squeezed his hand briefly. "And my freckles. They're all over--and I do mean all over--and I look like a bloody Dalmatian on a good day. On a bad one, I look as though I'm growing mould. Do you see?" he asked.

"A bit," Douglas conceded, but he wasn't done fighting yet. "All of that gives you a certain...gawky charm, Martin. I hardly think being a podgy, slovenly old fogy falls into the same category." The words hurt, but it wasn't often that Martin admitted to anything personal, much less something so...raw. Being equally vulnerable felt like the least Douglas could do.

“Look,” Martin huffed. “I know you never listen to me, but can we be done insulting ourselves now? Could—could you just…just maybe…kiss me again?” his voice caught a little, and his chin drew in toward his chest as he braced for rejection, but he held Douglas’ eyes with his own and Douglas saw a glimpse of solid steel in the younger man’s gaze.

“It was nice, wasn’t it?” Douglas ventured, and he could feel his mental scales tipping from _run away!_ to _give it a chance_.

“I liked it,” Martin admitted. “I liked you, like that, and—and I’m awful with words, so—so can I just, um, maybe show you?” And when he asked like that, shy, flushed, and biting his lower lip so fetchingly, how could Douglas say no?

“You have control, Sir,” Douglas murmured, leaning into Martin’s weight in surrender.

Martin’s grin all but lit the room as he responded, “I have control.”

~*~

 _You’re a fool, Richardson,_ Douglas mused, with the distant part of his brain that wasn’t intoxicated with the taste and feel and smell of Martin’s body. _You assumed he wouldn’t know how to do this, and you’re a fool._ Oh, Martin was still his own awkward self, but he made up for any bumbling with enthusiasm and sensitivity. Every touch of Douglas’ lips on his skin made Martin squirm, and the slow slide of their tongues together had the younger man shivering in Douglas’ arms. _And, you definitely should have done this sooner._

“I’ve been thinking about this,” Martin admitted, nuzzling the hollow behind Douglas’ ear and mouthing the lobe gently. “About you.” They lay facing each other on the rumpled duvet, with Martin propped over Douglas on one elbow, legs twined together.

“God, Martin,” Douglas groaned. “If you could land an aeroplane like you snog, I’d let you take every landing for the rest of forever.” 

Martin smiled, his eyes impossibly soft as he nudged Douglas’ nose with his own, kissing first one corner of his mouth and then the other before pulling back a little. “See what I can do when you’re not distracting me with your smart mouth?” he teased. “I much prefer when your mouth is like this.” To demonstrate, he nipped Douglas’ lower lip, and a heat pooled in Douglas’ pelvis.

“Show me,” he murmured. “How you want my mouth.”

Martin moaned, deep and lavish, his free hand kneading Douglas’ side and sloping around to the small of his back. “And the rest of you,” he pleaded, falling back to pull Douglas over him. “I want the rest of you, too.” Douglas pulled in a sharp breath through his nose at the shift, feeling the firming curve of Martin’s cock through their clothes. Pleasure thundered through him in great, bold waves as he realized—this was real. Martin wanted him, pudge and all. And oh, but he wanted Martin, too.

“Whatever you want,” Douglas pressed his lips to the underside of Martin’s jaw, rocking against the lithe body underneath him. Martin arched in response, canting his hips up and tangling his fingers in the salt-and-pepper waves of Douglas’ hair. Douglas followed the flush creeping down Martin’s neck, scraping his teeth against first one sharp collarbone, then the other. He retraced his path with his tongue, savoring the salt on Martin’s skin and the breathy gasps hitching in Martin’s chest.

This, he could do. If there was one thing Douglas knew, it was pleasuring a partner. And Martin, that beautiful creature, was more than willing to be pleasured. He was endearingly eager, arching and sighing as Douglas worked his hand up under the hem of Martin’s shirt. He raked blunt fingernails up the dipping planes of Martin’s sides, smoothing his palms over bone and muscle to watch Martin’s head roll loosely on the pillow. “Yes,” Martin whispered, fingers moving to squeeze the cushioned flesh over Douglas’ back and shoulders. “Your hands, Douglas, God…your mouth…”

“Mmm,” Douglas pushed up on his knees enough to scoot down on the bed, and Martin sat up to peel his shirt off. “Oh, yes,” Douglas growled, thumbing one dusky nipple and drawing a sharp gasp from Martin. “Gorgeous,” he licked, sucked, and bit kisses down the length of Martin’s sternum, sparse hair tickling his nose until he reached the flawless expanse of Martin’s stomach. 

“God-- _fuck_ \--Douglas,” Martin yelped when Douglas dipped his tongue into the hollow of Martin’s belly button. “Stop, stop—let me,” he blinked at the ceiling for a moment, gathering his wits about him, before pushing up to a position that let him cup the back of Douglas’ skull and bring their lips together again. “Come up here,” he invited, coaxing Douglas over him with sweet pushes of his mouth and the fervent pull of his hands. 

His fingertips skimmed the cool grain of Douglas’ belt, twisting in the fabric of his shirt and then slipping inside to trace the hills and valleys of his back. His other hand moved to cup the swell of Douglas’ erection through his trousers, dragging a ragged sound from the back of the older man’s throat. The pendulous mass of Douglas’ belly caressed Martin’s forearm and Martin slid his hand up to probe it gently, reverently, before slipping back down to rub the full, promising length trapped against Douglas’ thigh. Douglas mouthed the firm ridge of Martin’s trapezius, panting like a bellows and thrusting his hips forward into Martin’s grip.

“What do you like?” Martin asked, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with choices. He wanted—God, he wanted _everything_. “I just—there’s so much I want to do.” 

“Did you bring anything?” Douglas asked, voice uncharacteristically breathy. “Lube? Condoms?”  
“I didn’t expect--!” Martin’s voice was just tipping the edge of indignant and defensive, but he calmed when Douglas pulled back and cupped his jaw.

“Hush,” he murmured, kissing the tip of Martin’s nose, smiling at the flutter of sandy eyelashes. “It’s fine. I just meant, that rather dictates the number and type of activities we can do now. Next time we can do the other stuff.”

A slow, soft smile broke over Martin’s face, and Douglas couldn’t help but think of flying through a storm and rising up above the clouds into a water-coloured sunrise. He expected Martin to question him then, doubt his sincerity, or perhaps lose his nerve. Instead, Martin just asked him one question. “Promise?”

“For as long as you want me,” Douglas told him, and suddenly he had an armful of amorous Captain. “Wait—lotion, Martin,” he spoke between chuckles and kisses, wrapping strands of auburn hair around his fingers and tugging to give himself a little space. “In the loo, complimentary—oh.” Almost before he could blink, Martin had scrambled off him, darted into the little en suite, and scampered back with his trousers hanging precariously off his hips and a small bottle of body lotion in his hot little hands.

“Sit,” Martin nudged and pushed, shouldering Douglas over into and shaping his position with his hands and tugging at buttons and buckles and flies. Douglas helped as much as he could, and when the flurry of limbs and freckles had subsided a bit he found himself reclining back against a pile of pillows with an extremely naked Martin straddling his equally naked lap.

“God, yes,” Douglas’ eyes all but rolled back in his head as he gripped Martin’s slim hips and pulled. “Come here, you.”

Martin offered absolutely no resistance, and the first rush of skin on skin made him whimper with pleasure. Like this, he sat astride Douglas’ hips with his cock nudging the swell of that glorious paunch and Douglas’ glans snugged up to the top of his arse crack. “Yes, yes,” he puffed, hips rocking experimentally. “God, perfect…give me the lotion,” he floundered a bit, looking for the little bottle in the tumbled covers, until Douglas chuckled and waved the container under his nose.

Fingers trembling slightly from arousal and perhaps a hint of nerves, Martin striped out a generous portion onto his palm and rubbed his hands together to warm the stuff before arching his spine and reaching between his own legs to grip Douglas’ cock. Douglas hummed deep in his chest as Martin caressed it to full hardness. It was average enough in length, but the girth was not unimpressive and there was a tantalizing flare to the head as Martin worked the foreskin back with the pads of his fingers. Shifting a little, he folded it down flat against Douglas’ body so that when he sat, the slick length of it was sandwiched between his buttocks and the glans butted up behind his balls. The hum becames an all-out moan as Martin slicked his own cock with the last of the lotion and began a slow, steady undulation with his hips.

“Look at you,” Douglas crooned, watching Martin roll his pelvis in measured, erotic patterns. “Just look at you,” his voice dropped to a growl, fingers skimming up Martin’s sides to tweak and tug at first one nipple, then the other. Martin’s mouth went slack with arousal, and the sleepy-eyed look he gave Douglas made the older man’s guts simmer with want. “Next time I want that prick of yours in my mouth,” Douglas told him, and Martin’s eyelids fluttered as he ground his hips in a tight, dirty circle that nearly stopped Douglas’ heart dead in his chest.

“Then the time after that you’ll have to fuck me,” Martin countered, circling his hips again just to enjoy the way Douglas whole body bloomed with pleasure under him. Maybe it was the movement, maybe the unexpected words, but Douglas bucked up into him and Martin shouted in surprise as the tip of Douglas’ cock raked him from arsehole to balls, pushing up into his perineum. It wasn’t direct prostate stimulation by any means, but a pulse of deep, tingling pleasure sparkled along Martin’s nerves.

Douglas read the change in Martin’s rhythm, the faster push-pull-grind of his hips and the quickening cadence of his breath. “That’s it, like that,” he encouraged, cupping the back of Martin’s neck and drawing him into a messy kiss. “What do you need?”

Martin fumbled for his hand, thrusting the lotion bottle into it and making an incoherent motion with his whole arm. “Can you, like this?” he asked, wriggling on top of Douglas’ cock and feeling the cleft of his arse and underside of his genitals slick with sweat, lotion, and precome.

“Do that thing with your hips again and I—fuck, yes, that’s it,” Douglas grimaced, the sharp slide of his cock against Martin’s body pulling him fast towards orgasm. “Can you--?”

“Just your hand, here,” Martin panted, taking Douglas’ wrist and guiding him to cup the palm he’d just coated in the remaining lotion over Martin’s cock, sandwiching it between the velvety skin of his belly and the slippery surface of his palm. “Yes, shit, yes—that,” Martin bit out, snapping his hips forward into the hot channel under Douglas’ hand. God, he had dreamed of this, of rutting against that goddamn paunch and the reality was so much better than he could have ever imagined.

“You are just _filthy_ \--I had no idea,” Douglas gulped air and thrust his hips, driving Martin forward against his gut and slipping his own cock up against Martin’s perineum again, again. The flush on Martin’s face and shoulders spread almost down to his navel, and God but the sight of him writhing and moaning like that was enough to wreck Douglas. 

He could tell the moment Martin tipped over into certainty, orgasm rushing up on him like a flash flood, by the way Martin just started coming to pieces on top of him. His hands searched for something to grip, fingers scrabbling and kneading the rolls of flesh along Douglas’ waistline, one hand skittering up to pinch his own nipples and tug at the wild curls by his temple. Douglas surged up to meet him, free hand grabbing a fist full of ginger and yanking Martin’s head back to bite the long tendon at the side of his neck. An instant later, Martin was sobbing Douglas’ name against his lips and hot jets of semen spattered the dome of Douglas’ belly, running down between his fingers and slicking their joining under Martin’s body. The hot rush of breath against his neck as Martin collapsed and the sound of his own name tumbling brokenly from Martin’s lips was enough, and with a few last stuttering jerks, Douglas’ vision whited out and his own orgasm crashed over him like a tidal wave.

As his vision dotted back into coherency, Douglas realized that Martin had come completely apart in his arms, breathing all wrong and shaking so hard that bits were about to start rattling off him if he didn’t calm down. “Shh, shh, I’ve got you,” Douglas soothed, clutching at his Captain’s shoulders. The younger man was still thrusting weakly against him, aftershocks of his orgasm throwing off his rhythm and making his breath hitch. “Just take a moment; hush.” Martin’s pulse hammered in the hollow of his throat, and he let Douglas gather him up against his chest to run comforting hands down his back. His limbs were heavy and liquid, like a marionette with no strings, and the way Douglas ran his fingers carefully over each protruding nub of his spine was oddly endearing.

“Douglas,” he finally managed. “God, that was—I’ve never…wow.” Unfortunately a spine-melting orgasm hadn’t improved his coherency, and Martin wrinkled his nose. “I, um. Thank—thank you. Ugh, God,” he grimaced, moving to peel himself off of Douglas’ body. They were both rank with fluids and faux floral from the lotion, but the loo seemed much too far away. Tipping over sideways onto the bed sounded much better. Definitely.

“Mm,” Douglas grunted, evidently agreeing with the general feeling that getting up was overrated. “I actually think that should be my line, Captain.”

“Say what now?” Martin lolled his head to the side, throwing a curious look haphazardly in Douglas’ direction.

“You were the one that talked me off the ledge, remember?” Douglas pointed out, groaning as he heaved his bulk over to lie on his side facing Martin. “Or did my famed Richardson sexual prowess totally erase your memory of pre-coital events?”

Martin smiled, fond, rolling his head loosely from side to side. “Not a chance,” he slurred, caught by surprise when a yawn nearly cracked his lower jaw off. “And I definitely remember you promising me several repeat performances.”

“Steady on there, Martin,” Douglas feigned horror, though loose-limbed and satisfied as he was it was a rather unconvincing performance. “I’m not exactly a spring chicken; you may have to wait a while before the encore.”

“Ha! Shut up,” Martin laughed, rolling ponderously to his feet and disappearing into the loo. “I just meant,” he continued, popping back out again with a damp flannel that he handed to Douglas. “I—I just meant, will you…maybe, stay?” he asked. “If you don’t want to that’s fine, and I know Carolyn booked you your own room and she’d be furious if—,”

“Martin,” Douglas interrupted, finishing with the flannel and chucking it in the vague direction of the washroom. “Shut up. Of course I’ll stay,” he put out a hand, which Martin took immediately, and drew the younger man back into bed. “And, we can use my room tomorrow night, and Carolyn will be none the wiser.”

Martin’s replying smile was shy and boyish, but the kiss he pressed against Douglas’ lips was anything but. 

“Of course,” Douglas mused, half-joking. “She’ll definitely be very much the wiser when we’re back in Fitton and shagging each other rotten over every available surface inside GERTI…”


End file.
